60
Fletcher took the dwarf’s hands in his, unable to believe it. He felt sick, the world spinning around him.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ he whispered. ‘He’s not dead. He’s not.’
In the distance, Fletcher saw Solomon’s craggy figure lumbering in pursuit of the goblins, oblivious to it all.
No, it couldn’t be. The Golem would know.
Then a bird screeched above. A Caladrius, flying high as it cried out in misery. And that was when Fletcher realised – the knowledge like a cold stone in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t Othello. It was Atilla.
His twin.
It was over. Humans, dwarves and elves alike wandered through the battlefield, dumbstruck by their victory. There were so many bodies. More even than at the Cleft.
‘You saved us,’ Fletcher said to Cress, wiping his eyes. ‘We didn’t think you were coming.’
They sat beside Atilla’s body, unable to leave him alone among the corpses. There were no more tears to be shed.
‘It was Atilla who saved all of us,’ Cress sniffed. ‘He ran right into their midst with our last mana vial, and detonated the spell right there. These wounds … he knew he wasn’t coming back.’
Fletcher looked at his friend, who had given so much so that others could live. The dwarf looked almost peaceful, his face upturned to the still-warm skies.
‘How did you find us?’ Fletcher asked, trying to quell the tremor of emotion in his voice.
‘It was Malachi,’ Cress replied, staring out over the landscape, her knees hugged to her chest. ‘He found us. But the generals wouldn’t let us leave.’
She clenched her hands at the memory.
‘Heaven knows we wanted to, but the front lines were being overrun. Thousands of orcs, charging out of the jungles. No warning, no preparation. The first hour was a slaughter.’
Cress looked at him, her eyes filled with sadness.
‘And the demons. Hundreds upon hundreds of them. The orcs were sending them to die, only to summon new ones with scrolls that they’ve been saving. They’ve been planning this for years.’
‘What happened?’ Fletcher asked, looking to the east, as if he could somehow see the battlefield, all those miles away.
‘We fell back again and again. So many died. Tens of thousands. We’re losing ground, but it’s not over. At least, it wasn’t when I left.’
Silence. Fletcher could hardly believe it. They were losing.
‘The King is hoping the elves will arrive in time to aid us,’ Cress muttered. ‘He says their army left their lands a few days ago. They’re our last hope.’
‘So, why did you come here?’ Fletcher asked, horrified. ‘Hominum could fall, if it hasn’t already. You’re needed.’
‘The King ordered it,’ she said, meeting his gaze. ‘Malachi got to him too. Though, I’m surprised the little Mite managed it – he was acting strangely when he left us. Like all the fight had gone out of him.’
Fletcher’s heart twisted at her words. The brave Mite had continued its mission, even when its master had died. He didn’t have the strength to tell her what had happened to Rory.
‘But it wasn’t to stop the goblins,’ Cress continued, oblivious to the pain in Fletcher’s eyes. ‘Nor was it to save Raleighshire. It was to save you, Fletcher.’
‘Me?’ Fletcher asked dumbly.
‘There’s a reason we’re losing,’ Cress said, speaking quickly now, as if she had remembered why she was there. ‘It’s Khan. His demon … it’s … it’s like a giant version of Ignatius. Only it’s armoured, like a Wyvern.’
‘A Dragon,’ Fletcher breathed, his mind flashing back to the volcano, all those months ago.
‘Our Celestial Corps tried to kill it … but … the fire. It’s killing everything. Every time we think we have the upper hand, it swoops in and turns everything to ash. Nobody can even get close. Except …’
She tailed off.
‘Except me,’ Fletcher said, the realisation leaving him numb.
He was immune to fire, and so was Ignatius.
His fight was not over … it was just beginning.
Fletcher wanted to wait for Othello to return from routing the goblins. To be there for him when he saw his fallen brother. But there was no time.
He bade a last farewell from his friends and soldiers, most unable to stand from injury or exhaustion.
‘You come back, you hear?’ Berdon choked, as Fletcher hugged him goodbye.
‘Depend on it,’ Fletcher whispered.
A final embrace from Cress, all too brief as she took command of the scattered dwarves.
Then he was on Ignatius and limping into the sky.
The poor Drake was still suffering from the wounds he had sustained in the battle with the Phantaur, so their flight was erratic and slow. Fletcher could see the jagged holes in Ignatius’s wings, and blood had caked around his haunches where a spear had penetrated deeply. They were nearly crippled, but had no choice. Nothing else stood a chance against the Dragon.
Cress had barely been able to treat Ignatius’s wounds, using her last trickle of mana to heal a scratch on the Drake’s forearm. Now they circled the battlefield, orienting themselves. In the distance, Fletcher could see Othello and his dwarves chasing the goblin army, leaving a trail of dead stragglers in their wake. He sent them a silent thanks, and angled Ignatius away.
As they turned, Athena gliding alongside them, Fletcher heard a high-pitched cry from above him. The Caladrius was spiralling down out of the clouds, appearing for all the world like a dove descending from heaven. It landed gently on Ignatius’s back, and Fletcher saw a strange aura around the demon, a blurry haze along its edges.
The Caladrius was fading back into the ether, its master gone, the call of the wild taking hold of it. Fletcher wondered at the demon, its blue eyes boring into his as it spread its long, delicate wings across Ignatius’s own. He could see pain there.
A glow of white light suffused Ignatius’s body. Fletcher felt his demon’s pain receding, and before his eyes, the wounds began to fade, shrinking and healing over as if time were in reverse. Then the wound on his own arm was wiped away.
All the while, the demon watched him. The white light dimmed, and the Caladrius stroked his cheek with the edge of its beak. Then it was gone, gliding away to mourn its loss among the clouds above.
Fletcher had once heard that part of a summoner’s soul lived on through their demons – that their consciousnesses merged upon death. It was an old wives’ tale, one that Major Goodwin had scoffed at when Seraph had asked about it in one of their lessons. He had replied that the character of their masters might rub off on their demons over the years, but that was all.
Yet now, as they flew east, Fletcher was not so sure. His gaze wandered to Athena, who had loved him unconditionally from the moment they had met. Did his father live on, within her? Had the Caladrius’s healing been a parting gift from Atilla?
He took solace in that sentiment as Athena led the way, using her hearing to guide them towards the booms of cannon fire that echoed over the rugged lands beneath them. With every minute the sun continued its slow descent towards the horizon, its rays turning the world sepia.
It was only now that the enormity of his task began to settle on his shoulders – and the fate of an empire weighed heavy.
Could they do this? Did they even have a chance? Doubts plagued his mind.
Before long, Fletcher could hear the distant echoes of battle, carried by the warm evening breeze. Worried about finding himself behind enemy lines, Fletcher angled Ignatius’s flight north.
They flew on, blindly now, hoping to see Corcillum somewhere in the distance to orient themselves. But instead, he saw something else.
A great herd of deer, spread out over the green fields below him. On their backs, armed with bows and long-handled swords, were the elves.
They were divided into clans, each one delineated by the colour of their armour. Leading the way, Fletcher could see the red of Sylva’s family, a moose-riding elf at their head – a tall, straight-backed figure that could only be her father. Behind him, powerful elk tossed their branching antlers, eager for battle.
Even as he watched, the cavalcade broke into a gallop, bounding along the ground. Fletcher could see their target, a nearby cloud of smoke, beneath which were flashes of light and the crackle of gunfire.
Then his eyes widened. In the centre of it all, he could see the outline of an ancient castle, stark against the horizon. It was Vocans. Somehow, the orcs had forced Hominum’s army deep into the empire. Corcillum, with all its innocent inhabitants, was no more than a few hours’ march away. The very future of their world now lay on a knife’s edge.
A flash of warning from Athena pulsed through Fletcher’s mind. Below, a creature was flying up towards them. A Griffin.
His heart leaped.
Sylva.
Within moments she was beside him, the long, curved blade of her falx sword held aloft. She wore the red lamellar armour of her clan, and her hair was braided into a bun at the nape of her neck.
‘Fletcher,’ she shouted, guiding Lysander closer. ‘You’re alive. I thought … I’m glad you’re OK.’
He could see the relief in her face, lips half parted, eyes wide with emotion.
Despite the fear that gripped him, Fletcher could not help but smile at the sight of her. With her by his side, perhaps he had a chance.
She looked fiercer than he had ever seen her, with a rouge of warpaint highlighting her cheeks. He wanted to reach out and hold her, tell her how he felt, politics be damned.
But there was no time.
‘We thought you were Khan on his Dragon,’ Sylva said, her voice raised to cut through the rush of wind between them. ‘Our scouts are reporting that all is lost, that it’s decimating the battlefield.’
‘He’s out there,’ Fletcher replied, pointing at the cloud of smoke that drew ever closer. ‘I’m going to fight him.’
‘Well, let’s go, then,’ Sylva said, pushing Lysander on in a burst of speed.
‘Sylva, go back to your clan. Only I can do this,’ Fletcher yelled. ‘I’m immune to the flames.’
Sylva turned back, and yelled over her shoulder,
‘Try and stop me!’
And with that, she disappeared into the smoke.